Well it was Rock Week last night on X-Factor and I think I can speak for all of us when I say: Why not just give Omar Jesus Rock, Ronan?

Rico reckons if he had a Bucket List there’d be a new entry in the form of: Have Selective Brain Surgery To Remove the Memory of THAT Performance. Either that or: Sit Down With Ronan and Ask Him What For All the Sweet Lords of Bargain Basement Song Chutney Did Omar Do To Deserve Such a Public Rectal Exam.

Anyhoo, I woke up this morning with the flu and I’m feeling particularly crabby so I’d advise you all to buckle up, take a fortifying yard-stick of Rico’s favourite and get ready for a sharper tongue than that thing that came poking out of Miley Cyrus right before Robin Thicke learned the exquisite art of vomit swallowing.

First up was Dami and Dannii is so in love with her killer vocals and gigantic head that she’s given her a Foo Fighters’ song and permission to dress like a leathery ballroom dancer who doesn’t like her arm fat. And it’s the usual belty performance but Dami can’t rock her way out of out an unlocked box and Rico reckons she was either attempting The Chicken Dance or trying to crank out one hell of a ‘pit fart.

The judges, of course, rise to their fucking feet and clap until the sweat flies off their palms and hits Dami’s husband in his overenthusiastic face. Nat Bass, whose body is sucked into a leather dress and whose hair is sucked into something so ugly one can only assume Dannii’s cash got to the stylist first, leads the charge on how fucking GLORIOUS it was and Rico mutters that the only thing worthy of applause was that, for once, she managed to keep the lipstick off her tiny teefs.

Next is Third Degree who have been given the Chilli Peppers and strict instructions to worship at the altar of purple latex. It’s not awful but Jordyn is no Timomatic and Jacinta seems to go up an octave every week, presumably to remind us all that she’s a girl and that Kellebek is just a drag show Victoria Beckham who can rap.

Moving on to Jai and he’s even tinier than usual in a neon-blue blazer that swallows his neck and reminds us all that he’s essentially a toddler who probably thinks ‘rock’ is just that shit his mummy gets all sweaty over towards the end of a pay cycle. Anyhoo, he’s singing that Train song that all these judgey bitches always claim is their favourite song EVER and he gives it the usual squeak treatment with just enough Bieber hand gestures to have the judges squealing and Rico bitching that at least that Bieber bitch has cracked his first fat, even if it was over some Mexican Disney trash.

Onto Joelle and, because Ellie has gone, the style team have turned their wrath on another of Foo’s girls and packaged her ass in some sort of hideous 80s jumpsuit. Rico reckons it’s gorgeous seeing a size six girl flower into a junk-toting 14 overnight and that those shoulder chains gave him a decidedly Spartacus-type feeling in his pants that he hasn’t felt since the last time he made a telemarketer cry.

Anyhoo, she’s singing Concrete Blonde’s Joey and it’s scratchy but not too hideously over-emoted and Ronan thanks the phone gods that she and Foo appear to be communicating with words rather than just Instagramed middle fingers because if last week’s performance wasn’t the worst shit he’s ever swallowed he’ll put down the peroxide and grow out his natural ginger.

JTR are up next and the minute Rico see’s the skinny one he’s on his feet shrieking that it’s Max from The L-Word and if that psychotic bitch Jenny appears in the next five minutes, this is our time to tell her what we think of her poetry. Anyhoo, Max’s legs are spread so wide it looks like he’s birthing quintuplets, which, frankly, would be a more appealing spectacle than the raggedy mess that has about three girls cheering and Nat Bass on her fluid-filled hooves.

But nothing on God’s fucky earth could prepare us for the Tour de Fucktastickery that Ronan has in store for poor Omar.

That’s right, kiddies, sweet Omar who trilled his way through Justin Timberlake has obviously been snacking on Ronan’s fridge lunch and fiddling with his girlfriend’s knickers because out he comes in his Pat Benetar pleather best and singing a song that probably debuted as part of a Space Bag infomercial.

Poor Omar tries hard, but his face tells the tale of a talented singer backed into the corner of German rock and told to suck on it until he can taste the Hasselhoff. When the horror is finished, Ronan’s rubbing his hands in vengeful glee and even Danniiii’s tits are muttering to each other that that was more awkward than that time Olivier Martinez mistook her for Kylie and she forgot to correct him until the next morning.

But after the darkness comes the light – or in this case: Red Foo’s Jordan showing that even when you get given a decent song there’s nothing a busted tutu and some angry-face
can’t do to drop it in the shitter. Rico shudders and says that Jordan reminds him of that stalky little bitch from Swim Fan and if he were Red Foo he’d shave off that damn afro and get a job working a deli counter.

But finally it’s Taylor and after the high of last week it’s only fair he get to glimpse the bottom of the barrel with some good old Australian bogan Cold Chisel. It’s one of those songs with zero emotional range unless you’re lying under a pool table sucking up someone else’s spilled Bundy and getting stabbed in the calves by a street urchin. Rico rolls his eyes and mutters that Ronan must be on his period and that he really should stop using his contestant’s hopes and dreams to mop up the damn mess.

As this post is so late, we already know that it’s Foo’s bitches who hit the bottom running, and scratchy Joelle who slipped on a snarl of nappy Foo pubes and landed on her face. Rico reckons it was a totes deserving Bottom 2 and that if Jordan really is a stalky little freak, then being Foo’s one and only surviving act might just make things interesting.